I never thought I would see the day—yet, there I was, sitting in a Latin class again! And somehow, despite the inordinate number of years since I had last conjugated a Latin verb, there was a distinct familiarity about it all.

Knowing I was coming to visit from interstate, my sister had asked her U3A (University of the Third Age) Latin teacher if I could attend his class with her—and what a blast from the past it was! I was warmly welcomed as some sort of ‘expert’, simply because I had studied Latin for four years at high school, majored in modern languages at university and also survived a year of Classical Greek there. As to how much I remembered … well, that’s another story!

The teacher began by gently helping everyone revise all they had learnt up to that point and soon I felt I was in some sort of wind tunnel, being sucked inexorably back over the years. As those beautiful Latin phrases tumbled so effortlessly from his lips, I was again seated in that old classroom in Brisbane on a stifling, summer day, listening to my own teacher explain some finer point of Latin grammar. A moment later, I could hear her dry voice guiding us through a portion of Livy’s account of Hannibal’s exploits in battle. Next, I am sure I heard her sigh with exasperation, as she attempted to help us scan various lines from Virgil’s Aeneid and appreciate the finer points of Latin poetry. We were all so young and restless—and so eager to get on with our lives and leave those school days behind.

I returned to the present with a jolt, realising as I did how different my current Latin class experience was—and what a different space I was now at in my life. This time around, our male teacher was a gracious, respectful, retired university lecturer who knew exactly how to explain things well and how to remind everyone gently about what they already knew, without making them feel stupid in any way. The class members were all mature-age, experienced, lifelong learners who so valued this opportunity to unravel the intricacies of Latin and put their minds to work yet again. I went along for the ride, enjoying it all. And I did so with a truly thankful heart, as I reflected on the amazing journey I have travelled with God during all those intervening years since that last school Latin class of mine.

I have taken several interesting twists and turns in my life, as I lurched from one career to another. Some roles I undertook I thought would be forever, yet that was not to be. Instead, as I look back, I can see how God taught me things through each one that I would desperately need in the next, all the while shaping me to become more of the person I was created to be. No doubt I made some wrong decisions along the way, yet God has watched over me and gently guided me through it all. My times have indeed been in God’s hands—and I am so grateful.

But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, “You are my God.” My times are in your hands … Psalm 31:14-15

Most of us have experienced those moments in our lives when, for one reason or another, something wonderful we have looked forward to so much doesn’t eventuate. Perhaps we had false expectations all along and it was only a pipedream. Perhaps it was something we had worked hard for, but in the end it turned out to be beyond our reach. Or perhaps someone else let us down badly. Whatever the situation, the disappointment cuts deep, doesn’t it? And sometimes it takes a long time to recover. God is still there, we know. And we also know these things happen—that this is part of life and of our messed up world. But it can certainly knock the stuffing out of us.

I have seen such events occur in the lives of friends and family. I remember a wedding that was called off at the last moment. I remember a job loss that had been a large part of someone’s reason for being. I remember miscarriages and a longed for but stillborn baby. And even now in my writing world, I see authors’ hopes dashed as manuscripts they were sure would be accepted for publication are not—sometimes after several similar rejections. Yet I wonder if, despite their devastating nature, any of these rates one little bit beside the huge disappointment Jesus’ followers experienced at his death.

This Easter, I have been reading the last few chapters of John’s Gospel and trying to put myself in the very shoes of Mary Magdalene, one of the women who came to Jesus’ burial place early on the morning of that first day of the week (John 20). In this particular account, Mary finds the stone removed from the entrance of the tomb and Jesus’ body gone, then runs and gets Peter and ‘the other disciple’. These two return home, we are told, but Mary stays there, weeping.

As I try to relate to her, it’s no surprise to me she responds that way. After all, the man she believed was the Messiah, the Son of God—moreover, the one who had delivered her from demons and accepted and believed in her—had not only died a horrible death but was now even to be denied the decent burial he had been given.

And then she has a conversation with two angels in the tomb and with someone she believes to be the gardener. This man gently speaks her name—and everything changes.

Can you imagine the utter joy you might feel if that hardest moment in your life were to be reversed—if when you felt the light had gone out of your world, the very thing you had longed and worked hard for happened or the very thing you dreaded the most did not? What an amazing, amazing experience! Right now I am imagining that myself—and trying to allow that to give me insight into Mary’s deep, overwhelming joy as she races to tell the disciples she has seen the risen Lord.

It’s like in an instant, the world is put right again for her and for us. Yet not as it was—even better. In fact, everything is put right. Forever. At that moment when Mary hears her name, a hope and a future open up for her that are beyond compare and beyond anyone’s imagination.

This Easter, Jesus has spoken my name again. He has spoken yours too. Did you hear him?